The Value of Everything
by Munchieees
Summary: A missing bracelet, a familiar face, and the machinations of an underground wine society lead Sherlock Holmes to a conclusion he ought to have arrived at years before: women are not to be underestimated. Sequel to 'Dangerous Liaisons'.
1. Chapter 1

London in the summer draws almost everybody out of doors; whether those doors be in the city itself, or further afield, the thrill of a summer spent amongst the whims and fashions of high society is a prospect passed over by few. There are twice as many people in the streets, and unlike in the winter months, none of them are in any particular hurry. Neither, too, is it as easy to pass unnoticed. London's shadows hide the very best of its secrets, and far better when the shadows are longer, the alleys darker.

For Sherlock Holmes, summer was a seasonal hyperbole, at odds with both his professional curiosity, and personal preference; Holmes was fond of criminals, but not so of the heat.

Hot it certainly was, and the days were slow, the sunlight early and long. It was August; Holmes had spent a rather pleasant Winter being dead, and a yet more pleasurable Spring announcing his apparent resurrection to his nearest and dearest. The months he'd spent in the realm of the departed (in actuality, not so much 'dead' as 'chasing Moriarty's ghost over Europe) had been rather bad for business. Lestrade was not forthcoming with cases. The general public were not forthcoming with letters, at least, with letters that actually piqued Holmes' interest. There were always jewels, or wayward husbands, in need of returning, but Holmes was of the opinion wayward husbands were usually wayward with good reason, and knew better than to attach himself to the horrors from which they'd fled.

In the absence of work, Holmes found himself en route to dinner with his brother, on an evening he would have very much preferred to stay indoors. Reluctant though he was, an invitation from Mycroft was not an opportunity to be passed up. Besides being genuinely fond of his brother, Holmes knew that Mycroft rarely extended an invitation without purpose, and never with that purpose being small talk.

He was, at the least, guaranteed an evening's reprieve from Mrs Hudson's watchful eye, and really, Holmes could think of going to greater lengths to ensure it.

He met Mycroft on the steps leading to his brother's favourite leisure spot: the Diogenes Club, in a corner of Chelsea so exclusive, Holmes had no doubt, it was up for constant debate whether the address existed, at all.

"Sherlie! Your new mattress is treating you well; far better than endless nights asleep in that armchair."

"You lunched at the Savoy, I see," Holmes, who had in fact replaced his mattress only three days prior, replied. "How is their veal shank, now the chef's changed?"

"A little salty. I'm sure his palate will improve, given time." Mycroft Holmes stood a shade or two wider than his younger brother, and there were as many inches between them as years. He pulled a watch from one pocket of his waistcoat, and squinted through the twilight at its face. "I am glad I was able to rouse you without Dr Watson's intervention, this time."

"He was only too happy to help," Holmes reminisced. There were, in fact, a number of words that aptly described how Watson had felt, when called upon to drag Holmes away from the scorched remains of Mrs Hudson's kitchen, but 'happy' was not among them.

"The children are well?"

"All three currently accounted for."

Mycroft hummed, pleased. "I was fortunate enough to meet Mrs Watson last week. On her way to a seminar of sorts; I believe they discuss novellas over afternoon tea."

"Naturally," said Holmes. "Mary's interests are as varied as they mundane."

"You've yet to turn your eye to Dr Watson's opus, concerning your many adventures." As was Mycroft's way, it was not a question.

"Must have slipped my mind."

"I fear the novelty has worn off, since your resurrection," Mycroft said. "Rather less the tragic hero, now you're living once more."

"Yes," Holmes said. "He's still somewhat rankled about that."

They ascended the steps of the Diogenes together, and Mycroft rapped thrice with the handsome knocker. Almost immediately, there appeared a crack in the wood, the face of whoever had answered obscured behind a film, not unlike a priest at confessional. Not a word was spoken, but the silence seemed expectant, as if prompting a response.

Mycroft cleared his throat, and said, with some circumstance: "'Antisthenes.'"

The panel was drawn back into place, and seconds later, the door itself swung open.

"A noble tradition, the gift of silence," Mycroft said, before he stepped over the threshold. "Proceed to the left, brother mine; we'll dine in the Strangers' Room. There is much for us to discuss with our guest of honour."

Holmes' supposition had been correct, then, he mused as he followed Mycroft through the doorway, and into the gilded entryway of the Diogenes. Mycroft's motivations were not a break in their great tradition of unsociability, but a dinner with a purpose, somewhere they were unlikely to be overheard. A case, if a 'guest' was any indication, most likely one of Mycroft's more illustrious acquaintances, and Holmes confessed himself intrigued. For Mycroft to seek him out as such, the circumstances were bound to be extenuating.

They proceeded in silence down the left-hand corridor. The Diogenes Club was, for the most part, devoid of windows, and natural light was as absent as the sound of voices. Mounted oil lamps lit their way some twenty yards towards a black door, behind which lay the only area of the Club where conversation was permitted. Holmes himself had been in the Strangers' Room only once, but he remembered the layout well: twin armchairs, either side of a grate that had not, on his last visit, been lit.

Neither was it lit this time; what had changed, however, was the quantity of armchairs. Three now sat within the room, and as Mycroft pushed open the door, Holmes saw that one of them was already occupied.

He was not remotely prepared for who occupied it.

After an almost dramatic pause, Holmes tore his gaze from Mycroft's 'guest of honour', and addressed his brother directly.

"Your standards are slipping, Mykie; I was not aware you admitted the fairer sex, or for that matter, criminals, or ghosts."

"Half your front bench is out there, not-talking," Irene Adler replied. If she herself was shocked by Holmes' appearance, she was not showing it. "Whichever of those categories you want to fit them into."

"Certain principles occasionally benefit from a bending." Mycroft closed the door behind them, and smiled convivially between his guests. He had the air of a showman, and one who was rather pleased with his great reveal. He pulled smartly on a woven cord by the door, alerting the kitchen, no doubt, to their arrival. "Now, if you would care to join me at the table? The partridge is particularly good, this time of year."

—

Not for the first time, where Irene Adler was concerned, Holmes found himself somewhat at a loss. Dinner had been most beguiling; the partridge was, as Mycroft had promised, exemplary, but Holmes had not tasted a mouthful. He'd watched Irene the entire time, taken in every extremity of the woman he'd believed dead for almost a year; the woman who'd procured from him a myriad of emotions he'd once considered unimportant, among them fury, lust, affection, and most paralysing of all, grief he'd not known how to summarise.

Irene and Mycroft passed the meal in pleasant, if largely meaningless, conversation. Holmes stayed wholly silent. He did not speak to Irene, and she made no attempt to address him. Mycroft watched them both watch each other the way a puppet master observes his audience, playing off every reaction and response, in constant search of his next move.

Still Holmes had not reasoned as to why she might be there. Mycroft was too idle an auteur by far to facilitate a matchmaking, that was, if he was even informed of his brother's continuous involvement with Irene Adler. The questions multiplied within him, and remained stubbornly without answers.

Business, as usual, then, where Miss Adler was concerned.

At length, once the knives and forks had been set down, and a silent aide had arrived in pursuit of the empty plates, Irene smiled genially around the table, before getting to her feet.

"If you'll excuse me, gentlemen, I must powder my nose."

"Of course, my dear," Mycroft replied, heartily. He was always at his best, Holmes knew, after a good meal. His brother took his pleasures luxuriantly, and with rather more care than Holmes-the-younger had ever found in a pipe, or a boxing ring. "Across the entrance hall, and to your right."

Irene made her exit with a nod of thanks, leaving the brothers to their own devices. Holmes glanced sidelong at Mycroft, counted to ten as slowly as he could bear.

"Excuse me, Mykie. I've something to attend to."

And Holmes fled the room, only stumbling slightly on the rug on his way out.

He burst once more into the dim corridor, and cast his gaze urgently to either side, in time to see a hint of sage cloth vanish around the edge of the wall to his right. Holmes set off at a dash, spilling from out of the narrow hallway and into the entrance plaza in time to see the back of Irene as she stepped through a door on the opposite side, and shut it firmly behind her.

Crossing the hall and preparing to chase once more after Irene's retreating figure, Holmes was taken by surprise when he tore open the door, and ran directly into her back.

They stumbled a few steps forward into a box room, and Irene, who had been engaged before a large mirror, pinning a loose curl back to her head, was forced to throw out her arms and catch herself on the vanity table. Water slopped from the jug, splashing the floor and the front of Irene's dress, but before it could hit the ground and smash, Holmes reached a hand around irene's back, and caught it, halfway to the floor.

A pregnant pause followed, during which each realised they were within an almost indecent proximity, for the first time in over a year. Irene turned enough that she could look up into Holmes' face, and by no means for the first time, Holmes found he had no wish to look away.

"Nice catch," said Irene. "You're pretty agile, for a corpse."

"And you are most verbose," Holmes replied, "for a dead woman."

"Your brother's quite the conversationalist."

"And do you 'converse' often?"

"It seemed rude to turn down the invitation."

"It's preferable to not showing up at all," Holmes told her. "If you recall, we had dinner plans, oh.." He glanced at his wrist, as to an imaginary watch. ".. thirteen months ago? Give or take."

"Has it been that long?" She had still not broken his gaze. The woman looked up at Holmes like she had yet to decide whether she'd rather kiss him, or kick him, hard, somewhere singularly painful.

In the end, the solution was somewhat less excruciating.

The force of the kiss nearly knocked Holmes off-balance, would have, if not for the hard plane of wood behind them, as the door slammed shut in their wake. He recovered quickly, fingers threading with such speed into Irene's hair, he almost appeared ready to tear at it. The curl she'd been trying to pin fell irretrievably loose, and neither one cared to notice.

Holmes turned her by the waist, pressing Irene's hips against the door and burying his nose and mouth against the pale slip of her neck. She shuddered a breath as the kiss broke, tore in a pleased gasp as he turned his lips instead to her neck, her throat, the spot behind her left ear.

Holmes registered, vaguely, that her hands were busy, but did not guess why until his belt was entirely unsheathed. It was to be like that, then, with little preamble; the thought of having her like this, after so long, was enough to coax a hungry sound from his throat, brought his lips to hers again, not to stifle the sound, but amplify it, in symphony with several of her own.

Irene found the hard length of him with one hand, and with the other, tugged hard on his hair, exposing his throat to her mouth. She bit down to the tune of a growl, a rumble from within his chest Holmes had no hope of stifling. He shifted her against the wall with a purpose, pulling up from her hips so she stood on tiptoe, and the curve of her breasts pressed firmly against his own chest.

He met her eye once more, watched the pupils already blown wide with arousal, for the permission he ached for.

Irene jerked down the remainder of his underclothes with an impatient sound, threw back her head as he clasped her wrists to the wall above, with a whispered litany of "Yes, yes—"

It was what Holmes had been longing to hear. He lifted her skirts, and Irene lifted her leg, with desperate ease, around his waist. Holmes palmed her thigh, fingers slipping just so beneath the band of her stocking, and then higher, seeking where she was already warm and wet with anticipation.

Irene urged him on, hips shuddering forwards against his hand as he slicked his fingers with her, and stroked up and over the front of her undergarments. French lace, Holmes thought; how characteristic.

He'd missed her far more than he was prepared to admit.

Holmes held her skirts, the crinoline bunching beneath his fingers. She shifted against him, with real purpose this time, and Holmes breathed out harshly, eyes falling closed as he tightened his grip. He turned his face to her neck, lifting just enough against the slant of Irene's hips to find the right angle, and finally, finally, push into her.

Irene's resultant gasp was far more of a cry; Holmes himself was taken enough that he stilled completely, commanding every ounce of control he could muster to belay him, to enjoy every moment of this for the very few, he was sure, they would have.

Irene was not nearly so adept at patience. She steered his gaze with another tug at his hair, cheeks flushed, and lips parted around a singular command:

"Move."

Holmes did so. He used his grip on Irene's thigh to pull her hips flush in a sharp thrust against his own, and at her insistent reciprocal pace, they found their rhythm.

She spread above him and around him, thigh trembling beneath his grip, and as Holmes hit his stride, he grew lost in the noises she made. Higher and higher, more desperate with every thrust; Holmes had never known vulnerability look so good on anyone but Irene Adler, or grow more powerful with it. She flourished brighter and more beautiful the further in she took him, and when Holmes mustered the wherewithal to reach around her thigh, and rub decisively against her with a thumb, she climbed higher still.

Nearing his peak now, Holmes was relieved to feel Irene not far behind. The little cries she'd been emitting had become words, and he redoubled his efforts with his thumb, coaxing her closer and closer still.

"I missed you — God, oh God, I missed —"

She began to shudder against him; Holmes himself was blind to all but the feeling of Irene's release as it took her, tightening impossibly around him, hot and slick and good, so good—

A handful of strokes later, and Holmes let Irene's leg drop, stifling his own sharp gasp against her throat, and then they were supporting each other against the door of the small room, with something far bigger opened up around them.

Holmes let go of her skirts, kissed her neck once more as good sense returned. Irene's hair was a mess, queue and curls in disarray, and a violent blush standing out on both cheeks. It occurred to Holmes, as it often had, since India, that he would like to kiss her again, very much.

He lifted her chin with every intention of doing so, but found himself thwarted. Irene turned her face so subtly it might even have passed as an accident, but returned her hand to his hair to brush it from his brow. Holmes was left with the vague impression he'd just been patted on the head in thanks.

"Well."

"Very well."

Holmes bit down on the smile that threatened. There was the Irene he knew, almost as if she'd never gone away.

It occurred to him that there was something owing, some words or other, that might bridge the gap they'd forged between what understanding they'd formed in India, and wherever on Earth they were now.

It was not the time. Irene straightened her skirts, patted his cheek almost as if she wanted to let her hand linger.

"Don't leave it so long next time."

And with a whisper of fabric, and the scent of her perfume hanging like so much between them, she was gone from the room, and Holmes was left, trousers at his knees, wondering what, precisely, had just occurred.

—

"Miss Adler was sorry she couldn't stay," said Mycroft, as he spooned his way through a rather magnificent treacle tart. "Some business or other to attend to."

"She's never been fond of desserts," Holmes remarked. "'Just', or otherwise."

Whatever amusement passed over his brother's face at that, Holmes couldn't rightly say.

"Still, it gives us ample time to discuss your movements for the next fortnight." Mycroft folded his napkin with a pleased smacking of his lips. "Wine?"

"Something stronger?"

"Brandy, then." Mycroft hummed approvingly, and bade his younger brother cross to the cabinet, where stood a handsome bottle of Armagnac, alongside two glasses. Holmes poured a healthy measure for Mycroft, and returned to his own seat with the rest of the bottle in-hand.

"You'll be familiar, I'm sure, with the name of a colleague of mine; patron of the Diogenes, by the name of Crispin Hooper?"

"Commons, or Lords?"

"Lords, as it happens. He's missing an heirloom of some considerable value: a bracelet, belonging once to his late wife." Mycroft took a long sip of his brandy. "I was hoping you might see fit to assist."

"Petty thievery a matter for the police," said Holmes, dismissively. "That is, assuming the bracelet is of a size and value that even Lestrade couldn't hope to miss it."

"And I would never waste your precious time on such trivialities," said Mycroft, crisply. "You know better, little brother, than to jump to conclusions."

Suitably chastised, Holmes waited.

"The bracelet was interred in a family vault, requiring Hooper's own permission to withdraw," Mycroft continued. "At length, a close family member may have stood a chance, but as such, it is an unlikely conclusion."

"Why so?"

"Hooper has no close family remaining," Mycroft replied. "Neither he, nor his wife, had siblings; they themselves had two children, both of whom he is considering exempt from investigation."

"That may well be his first mistake of many."

"I thought so too," said Mycroft, "if not for the strength of their respective alibis; the same alibi, in fact," he went on. "Both of Hooper's children are dead."

Holmes mulled it over. That was the thing with the cases that seemed mundane: the slightest detail could brighten one's entire outlook. "Intriguing."

"The objective, therefore, is one I'm sure you have already concluded?"

"To uncover which of the dear, departed children robbed Daddy from beyond the grave."

"Precisely." Mycroft hummed, satisfactorily, around the rim of his glass. "As a man with some experience in post-mortem shenanigans, I thought this might pique your interest."

"So it has," Holmes said. "How, precisely, did his children die?"

"His daughter some ten years' past" Mycroft replied. "The son, not six months ago, following a revolt in the North African colony to which he was stationed." He peered into the jug of custard beside his plate, and with a pleased noise, helped himself to what remained. "I'm sure Hooper himself could shed more light upon the details, that is, if you agree to take the case?"

Holmes had his own ideas, concerning the theft of an invaluable bracelet, and the coincidental presence of a certain practiced jewellery thief at his brother's dinner table. His musings, however, did not alter his answer, in either direction.

"Have our secretaries draw up a meeting."

"I'll have someone contact Dr Watson in the morning," Mycroft replied, glibly.

Holmes nodded, and found his feet, taking a final swig from the brandy bottle as he did so. "Adieu, then, brother?"

"Bon chance," said Mycroft, waving him off. "Oh, but Sherlie?"

Holmes paused in the doorway.

"This room in which we stand is the only one of its kind in the building. The others are not nearly so adept at keeping noise locked within."

There followed a long and heavily-implied pause.

"Happy Thursday, Mykie."

"And to you, brother mine."

And Holmes left the Diogenes Club for what, he suspected, would be the final time he'd be welcome within its walls.


	2. Chapter 2

Holmes awoke, quite unwillingly, to the sound of carts on the street outside, and an insistent hammering on the door of 221 Baker Street.

A client, perhaps? No, Holmes soon decided; by footfall alone, not to mention the high, familiar voices clamouring for entry, clients were unlikely to bring their.. three children along for a consultation. His deduction was proven true some two minutes later, when a firm rap on the door came, and a voice, immediately after, shouting out:

"You have half a minute," came Watson's voice again, "to hide weapons, chemicals, and any part of yourself that is not sufficiently, entirely clothed."

"You know I only take orders in even numbers," Holmes replied at a volume, even as he stood, wrapped his smoking jacket tighter still around his chest, and kicked the end of a well-positioned bayonet safely beneath the armchair with his heel. "Consider the consequences of my confusion, Watson, I beg you."

There followed an unamused silence Holmes realised was set to draw out for the entire thirty seconds he'd been allowed. He busied himself with a brief recognisance of his rooms, tucking an assortment of 'unmentionables' out of sight. Revolver, bullets, boxing gloves, a handsome cudgel - even, Holmes identified with malice, his pipe would need to be stowed before the doors were breached. This done, he gathered his robe tighter to cover his chest, gave a final tug on the threadbare ties about his waist, and sat once more, to receive his fate.

The window was open, but the outside so stagnant with heat and burgeoning industry that no 'fresh' air had permeated his rooms for some days. Holmes would deny until his dying moments that inward thrust of his door, and the subsequent rush of cleaner air, left him feeling somewhat refreshed; lethargy returned moments later, as the Daughters Watson made their entrance, and Holmes was left contemplating how exhausting involuntary affection could truly be.

"Now, you know the rules." Tilly and Rose, old enough to heed their father's warning, nodded, preemptively. For young Esme's benefit, however, Watson thought it best to confirm her understanding. "We don't touch anything, and we don't put our fingers in our mouths."

"Yes, Papa." Only then was the three year-old set down, to scamper to her Godfather's side. T

The girls had inherited none of their mother's suspicion when it came to Holmes, and the chaos in which he lived. Rose had made a firm beeline for the books piled below the window for her, chosen from Holmes' collection, on the basis they were safe for consumption, as well as handling. Restless like her father, not so easily placated, Tilly's interest was the window itself, and the bohemian expanse of Baker Street below. She leaned perilously over the edge, far enough to cast a shadow over her twin's pages, and earned a swat for her troubles.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" Holmes enquired, flippant, even as he shifted sideways in his armchair, giving Esme leave to clamber aboard. "The absence of burning ears, perhaps? I've not had cause to talk about you for weeks on end."

"Mrs Hudson asked us by," said Watson, taking his own seat. "You owe her the pleasure; though I imagine she'd use a different word."

"And there was I believing you lacked imagination." Holmes sniffed. "Excepting, of course, your creative exaggeration of our exploits I choose to call 'work', and you look upon as a serialised _Magnum Opus_."

"The point of a diary," Watson said, equally as haughty, "is to recount events in truth _as perceived_ by the writer." He raised a long eyebrow skywards. "And I assure you, my melodramatic companion - not one word of what I write is fictionalised."

"—' _Whom I shall ever regard as the best, and the wisest man I have ever—"_

"Like in your book, Daddy!" Rose, from the windowseat, seemed truly delighted, yet more so by the several seconds it took her father to recover.

"You," said Watson at last, "are not supposed to be reading about liars and criminals.""Yet you'll let he peruse the Bible…"

"Holmes."

"Daddy, what's this?"

Both 'Daddy' and detective turned to Tilly, who was stood at the high table, fingers curled over the top, as she stared in fascination at a selection of implements, crowned by a nondescript pile of white powder. So nondescript was it, in fact, Holmes had utterly failed to notice it during his sweep of the room.

"Icing sugar," said Watson, at length, and with some wrath. "Your Uncle is quite the baker."

"It came with the postal address." Holmes positioned a back-issue of the Times carefully over his equipment, and turned back to the doctor, the picture of innocence. "I was under the impression we'd agreed 'Uncle' is a term for geriatrics, megalomaniacs, egomaniacs and," he finished, with some severity, "Americans."

"Papa, what's wrong with Americans?"

"Nothing, darling," her father replied. When Rose had turned back to her book, he returned with a muted, "As if we didn't have enough struggles, without you making Republicans of the three of them."

"I thought we agreed, no blasphemy?"

"You're full of 'thoughts' today, aren't you?"

"The best example we can set the younger generation is one of consistency." Holmes reached out a hand for his pipe, but remembering his audience, thought better of it.

"However insipid and tiresome such a regime may become."

Watson looked as though he had a retort ready, but it was cut short by a firm rap at the door. Mrs Hudson pressed her face around the doorframe, and Holmes looked to his friend as to a disciple who had just been shown the most divine of truths.

"Speak of the Devil, they say, and 'He' shall appear, in any one of his innumerable forms."

"It's alright, Mrs Hudson," Watson supplied, not removing his gaze from Holmes. "He's unarmed."

"Wonders never cease." Her latter years had been kind to Mrs Hudson; her continued position as Holmes' landlady, however, had not. Some months since Watson had seen her last, and he could have sworn there were twenty-four on her at least.

"How are you, Mrs Hudson?"

"Grateful only to see the sun rise another day." She set the tea service down amongst Holmes' papers. Only when her gaze fell upon the three Watson girls, carefully assembled, did her stern countenance approach something vaguely gentile. "Now. If you three refuse to cease growing, I shall have to entirely re-cast the dresses I've drawn up in the parlour room..."

Tilly and Rose broke forth into a twin clamour of questions and praise, Esme following their example with little arms raised against her total lack of understanding.

"What do we say, girls?" Watson put in, and the response was instantaneous.

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson!"

"Well, now." Mrs Hudson smiled benevolently. It was a most unfamiliar expression. "Good manners earn a good reception. Would you like to try them on for size?"

Indeed they did; all three girls piled from the chaise lounge to Mrs Hudson's skirts, clamouring to be led from the room and down to whatever sartorial temptations beckoned.

"Twenty minutes only," Watson told them as they made their exit. "Your Mother will never forgive me if we're late for the governess."

Crowing their goodbyes, the girls departed. The room was, Holmes observed, somewhat quiet without them.

"Your wife is a governess," said Holmes, once they were alone. Watson raised a long eyebrow. "Well remembered."

"And the surplus?"

"A colleague of Mary's," said Watson. "They take tea and discuss literature, every Friday, a whole group of them besides."

"How long have I been off the map," Holmes asked, "if now, even the governesses are unionising?"

"You," Watson said decisively, before Holmes could stray any further down the proverbial rabbit hole, "need a case."

"I have one in-hand."

"Oh?"

"Why else would I welcome your presence without prior warning?"

"I can't imagine." Watson's sardonic gaze broke slowly into a fond smile, much as he tried to hold it back. He offered a hand. "Good to see you, old chap."

"As always." They shook, easily as they ever had. "The case, then?"

"A political affair," Holmes reported. "Courtesy of Mycroft. A Lord is missing an heirloom." "Careless," Watson observed. "Did he have them to spare?"

"Two dead children, one absent inheritance." Holmes took up his pipe. "Quite the current affair."

"Money?" Watson hedged. "A diamond necklace. Not the sort one might forget to return." Watson pondered in silence.

"Both the children are truly dead, I suppose?"

"Well, we're all aware of how easily even the most attuned or medical minds can be fooled by a good drug and a sanctimonious manner..."

"The life of a comedian doesn't suit you," Watson replied, acerbically. "Is this man a friend of Mycroft's?"

"'Friend' is not a word one often applies to my brother," said Holmes. "He has acquaintances, annoyances, and colleagues who fit into both alternate categories."

"Of which this Lord Hooper is..?"

"An amusement," Holmes replied. "The bonus fourth category."

"Naturally." Watson flipped a page. "Tell me: why does your brother not see fit to investigate this himself?"

"All other men are specialists," said Holmes, "but his specialism is omniscience."

"Meaning?"

"He couldn't give a damn about society," said Holmes, "Provided 'society' remains interesting enough for him to observe." Watson paused a moment.

"He's idle then?" "He's a governmental official," said Holmes, as it that settled the matter. "The point, my dear Watson, is we've been given an opportunity to seek out the deceased, dog the departed, and otherwise pursue the passed-on..." He indulged in a long drag on his pipe. "For the life of me, I can't think why you're not more excited."

"I'm a father of three, Holmes," said Watson. He did not seem precisely 'tired' as 'tired of saying the same'. "The repercussions of my getting shot, or blown up, on one of your—

"Our."

"— our misadventures hardly bear thinking of, these days."

"It was your choice to reproduce," said Holmes. "You cannot expect the criminal minds of London Town to excuse your shenanigans longer than it might take you to resist committing an act of—"

"Enough." Watson looked able to get on his feet. He fixed a most approving on Holmes. "I gave the children twenty minutes; you needn't think the same doesn't apply to you."

Holmes wondered, briefly, if he ought to be offended. He decided soon enough it was hardly worth the time.

"You'll take the case?"

"Of course." Holmes sniffed.

"Ad-hoc; any friend of Mycroft's—"

"As you said, Mycroft doesn't have 'friends'," Watson interrupted. "And if he does, with the greatest of respect, Holmes, don't they have.. people.. to resolve situations like this? Assassins, Perhaps? Or civil servants?"

"I won't have you," said Holmes, with depthless sarcasm, "insulting the very cogs of our great nation in my presence." Safe in the absence of the girls, he reached beneath his cushion, retrieved his spare pipe, pre-stuffed, and lit it without shame. "Mycroft never asks for help unless it's truly necessary." "

Yes, but this isn't help for Mycroft, is it; it's help for one of his unscrupulous 'friends.'"

"Where my brother operates," said Holmes, "there is always an agenda."

Watson snorted. "I thoroughly enjoy how you don't see that was precisely my point from the start."

"Would you like to be involved, or not?"

"Of course."

"Then it's settled." Holmes passed Watson the pipe, and he took a cursory mouthful before passing it back. "Nine o'clock, at Cavendish Place?"

"Fine." Watson stood, took up his hat and his cane.

"Until then?"

"I miss you already."

"I'm certain." Watson made his exit, in search of his wayward daughters, and Holmes was left wondering just how he'd avoided mentioning either Irene's resurrection, or her involvement.

* * *

That night, once the girls were in their beds, and both cook and nursery maid had retired too, Mary Watson looked up from her look, and addressed her husband across the empty hearth. "Darling, I wonder if I might ask you a favour?"

"Of course." Watson crossed to her, taking a seat beside her on the Chesterfield. "What is it?"

"It's the children's' governess."

"Is she not performing?" Watson frowned. "It's a shame, if so. I know the twins are fond of her."

"They are," said Mary. "And Miss Lewis is performing admirably." She considered her next words carefully. "Miss Le— Martha, believes she's with child."

Watson nodded, digesting this. "The father?"

"A fiancé," said Mary, "now dead. Before you ask," she continued, "yes, there was a fiancé, and yes, he really is dead, some months now."

"Much as I enjoy you putting words in my mouth, dear, I do wish you'd think better of me when you do it."

"I'm sorry," Mary conceded, "but that is exactly the problem, John; a young, unmarried woman, particularly in our line of work…"

"Her prospects would be limited," Watson agreed. "To say less of how we proceed, with a pregnant governess, and thee impressionable girls. You know I'd do all I can," he continued, quickly. "I know she's a friend, Mary, but surely you agree the children take priority?"

"Of course," said Mary. "The girls would be devastated to lose her, at any stage, and vice-versa, too; she was in such a state when she came to me today, and resigned her post."

"She's already resigned?" Watson asked, with foreboding. The hunt for a governess capable of inspiring Tilly to work had been task enough the first time, without a second hunt rearing its head so soon. "With immediate effect?"

"That was her intent," Mary replied, "but for now, at least, I've stayed her hand."

"How on Earth?"

"You don't need to say 'how' when you mean 'why', dear," Mary said, teasingly, but reassured her good humour with a hand. "She's not yet begun to show, nor had any symptoms to speak of, except the cessation of her 'monthlies'." She paused, allowing Watson's medical mind leave to contemplate. "I thought we might keep her on, until such a time as it's impossible."

"And what if it takes us longer than the next month or two to find a suitable replacement?"

"Then I'll take over the girls' lessons myself." Mary spoke smoothly, as if she'd prepared for every possible reply. "They won't fall behind whilst there's breath in my body." She considered. "Or spirit in me to take hold of Tilly's imagination."

"Task indeed." Watson nodded his agreement. He couldn't help a smile. "I suppose the 'favour' you wanted of me was one of agreement?"

"That, and a consultation."

"Yes?"

"She's yet to be examined," Mary said. "She can well afford to see a doctor, but has no faith in their discretion." She looked up into her husband's face, her hand settling on his knee. "I trust she can count on yours?"

Watson said nothing for a long moment, and then, in the interest of buying time, said: "Let me fetch my appointment book."

He made for he study, contemplating his sympathies with the young woman who'd been tutor to his daughters the last two months. Foolish though she'd been not to better protect herself, he was conflicted; Watson had known women, in a manner of speaking, as Mary had known men, before they'd met. Their marriage bed was their own, and that was a fact, but Mary had been courted, and kissed, and Watson himself was no hypocrite. He thought back, as he rummaged through his office particulars, to his lying in after being wounded in Afghanistan, the quick-witted nurse who'd attended him, and the kiss she'd awarded him upon his departure.

Back further still were the chambermaids who attended the shared rooms at Bart's, soft-eyed and soft-capped, young hands worn rough already by labour.

In particular, with no pleasant recollection this time, he remembered how his classmate had gotten one of them in trouble, and in refusing to do the honourable thing, had seen her dismissed onto the street. Watson had heard later that the girl took matters into her own hands, like so many, and though Watson could not approve, her fate left a sour taste on his tongue all the same.

Chief among his mixed feelings was the unfortunate, yet not atypical, fact that W had held the fairer sex in rather different regard before he'd become father to three of them. He tried to imagine his reaction, were one of them to confess in years to come she was in the family way, with no husband to speak of, and realised that although he could say with some certainty his response would be born of love, he could in no way guarantee it would be kind. This realisation brought upon Watson such a feeling of guilt that by the time he'd returned to Mary's side, he'd firmly made up his mind what was to be done. He sat the book across his thighs, and thumbed it open to the page for the week ahead.

"I have half an hour before I'm to visit Mr Reynolds tomorrow morning." He pulled a pen from his pocket, and carefully printed ' _M Lewis_ ' in the available space at the forefront of his day. "Would she be able to start slightly later with the girls, this once?"

"I should think so." There was no denying Mary's smile now, or the affection behind it. She leaned in to kiss his lips, soft and familiar. "You're a good man, John."

Watson thought again of the chambermaid, and how little he'd been compelled to do, at the time. "You bring it out in me, Mary."

She pressed his hand. "So, the girls will keep their governess?"

"Indeed," Watson confirmed. "Though how we will find another so adept at handling Matilda, I have no idea."

"It's Esme we'll have to watch," said Mary, with a fond smile. "She's a bright one, as well as mischievous." Then, thinking of her other children; "How funny it is, that we could've produced two so dissimilar, though they shared a womb, and one a perfect combination of them both."

"Extraordinary, isn't it?" Watson swung crossed his right ankle over his left knee, his arm around Mary's shoulder so she leaned into his side. "I couldn't be prouder if they were all Cambridge scholars, or star batsmen."

"If it's a son you'll be wanting next, John, you'll have to allow me time." Mary leaned to look up at him, a twinkle in her gaze. "Say, ten to fifteen years?"

Watson chuckled, kissed her brow. "No, no. I've grown so used to being entirely outnumbered by women, it seems a shame to upset the cart."

"'Why, Mr Bennett-'"

"Oh hush." A creak from the floorboards above caught both their attention. "That'll be Esme," he observed. "Straight to the twins' room to hide out, no doubt."

"Let her be, a while," Mary suggested. "Let her believe she's fooled us, this once. It won't do any harm."

"Spoken as someone who didn't see how quickly she climbed up into holmes' armchair, early this morning." Watson shook his head. "She's quite taken with him; and vice-versa, it seems." He left it at that; no good, after all, would come from disclosing Tilly's discovering what might've been enough cocaine to subdue a thoroughbred.

Late of leaving the living room, hand-in-hand, the Watsons discovered their youngest daughter had indeed decamped to the twins' bedroom, though only insofar as to fall back to sleep, curled at Rose's side in the small bed. By unspoken agreement - perhaps in mutual understanding of how very soon it would be before the two would be too grown to fit together as such - they left her to her dreams, and went to bed themselves.

* * *

Some small distance away, as the crow flies, a rather different, though no less amorous, display was unfolding. Irene Adler sat - or rather sprawled - in one armchair at 221b Baker Street, her legs positioned none-too-securely over the shoulders of the man who knelt, and worked, as if starving, between her thighs.

It appeared Irene's hips had begun moving to a melody that was not of her control. One hand clenched in the hair of her lover, the other rubbing frantically at her own breast, shed long since lost the power for coherent speech, and so urged him on in the certain knowledge this was, by far, the best use for his clever, clever mouth she could name.

As she neared her peak, he redoubled his efforts, striking up an unbearable rhythm with tongue and a smart slip of fingers, searching, pressing, forcing her towards a climax which hit seconds later, and sent her hips shooting off the seat, in spite of his efforts to hold her still.

Irene came, and then came down, with the same familiar ecstasy thats born only of a body well-learned, and a deep affection never-mentioned. When she was able to open her eyes, much less focus, it was to look down into the flushed face of her lover, where he'd watched her pleasure play out as if he derived as much enjoyment from it as he had his own release, not long before.

"Are you expecting a 'thank you'?" she asked, when she'd found her voice.

"Perhaps an accolade," Sherlock Holmes replied, "even if not gratitude."

Irene laughed, reaching for his cheeks, and dragging him higher onto his knees to deliver a bruising, grateful kiss.

"There," she said. "Now we're even." "I do enjoy when we're on the same page." Holmes stood, ruffled his hair with both hands, and picked his smoking jacket from the floor.

"As do you, when the odds fall into your favour." He watched her expectantly, until she decided she'd allow him the (not undue) comment, and shifted to make space for him in the chair.

"How was the rest of your dinner?"

"I'd hold fonder memories," said Holmes, "if you'd tell me what exactly your purpose was in attending."

"Your brother has good taste."

"In all but associates, it seems."

"Don't write Hooper off before you've met him." Irene rocked her neck from side to side, wincing in satisfaction as the tension drained with an audible ' _click_.' "He can be a bastard, but he's a useful one. I shouldn't think you'll have any major difficulties with the case."

"Of course," Holmes observed. "Missing diamonds; I should have known you'd have a hand in this."

"I'm a changed woman, Sherlock," said Irene. "A 'consulting philanthropist', even."

"For which of the dearly departed children?"

"Neither." Irene's smile, when it dawned, gave nothing away. "Whoever they were, they're dead and buried, and that's honestly all I know." With difficulty, tucked against Holmes, she shrugged. "I met the guy once; he asked me to dinner, I told him it'd be a cold day in Hell."

"In those words, I hope?"

"Naturally." She kissed him then, just once, leaning into the warmth of his body, and his withheld affection. "It's been a while, hasn't it? Don't you believe people can change?"

She regretted the words soon as speaking them; the abyss that had opened between Holmes' supposed death, and her own, had left much that neither party were willing to discuss. When she pulled away again, the response was what she'd expected: a blank canvas, the Holmes she'd known before India.

She suppressed the inevitable sigh, and instead braced a forearm against the chair, better to haul herself out of it. Her dress lay, abandoned, by the door, and since she had no intention of asking Holmes to re-lace her, she went instead to his closet, and began her perusal.

"I've never asked you to trust me."

Irene's hand stayed against the lapel of a shirt she'd been halfway through selecting. "I know that."

There followed a long pause. Had she been looking at him, Irene would have bet hard cash Holmes was looking at his own feet in admission. "Then grant me the wherewithal to say, nonetheless, that I'd never—"

In all her life, Irene had never known the great detective to mince over words, yet she knew immediately to what he was referring.

A memory, then, inevitable, yet the worst kind of unwilling; Alcott pushing her down to the floor, the power behind his hold nothing resembling the care Holmes, or indeed anyone else, had taken with her pleasure, her body, dammit, her _mind_ , ever since — Irene swallowed, composed herself, before she turned.

"Do you think I'd be here, if I thought you would?"

She shut the closet door, turned on her heel, and in a few short steps, had swiped her dress from the floor. She'd dress in the hallway; for now, at least, there was almost nothing else to say.

"Fuck you, for even thinking that's what's holding us back."

She left, then, with her memories, and the anger she knew would fade, but safe in the knowledge she was to blame for none of it. Fear, she reflected, took time to fade. Trust, though for her, hard won, took hold like a vice.

* * *

AUTHOR'S NOTE

This was an important chapter for me, which is partly why it's taken me so long to get it out to ya'll.

Subscribers to 'Dangerous Liaisons' will know I've done a whole load of maturing, and reflection, on the use of rape as a means of advancing plot, and realised I did Irene an absolute shitter the first time around. For the people in the back, in case it wasn't clear, here's at least some sort of apology - agency, as far as I'm able - for a character who's recovering from rape, but still enjoys sex.

I'm aware there are way more nuances to this than I show here; the 'show, don't tell' principle really doesn't work hand in hand with trying to make amends. Please be assured, though, that Irene in this 'verse has taken her own journey towards having and enjoying sex again in the aftermath of abuse, and though I'm fortunate enough to not have experience to back this up, rest assured I've consulted friends on an appropriate response. The answer: it's an individual experience, and much as I plan for this to be the only main mention of abuse and recovery, I can't promise it won't come up again, depending on where the story goes. I'm firing blanks here, to an extent, but I'd like to once again stress how appalled I am at the way my 15 year old self handled the topic of rape, and I'd like to do all I can, within the limits of the canon I've established with this series, to honour Irene Adler as a character, and woman, without that stigma.

Any questions or issues, please feel free to get in touch.


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